Sparda & Django
by Golden Gecko
Summary: Hell's worst enemy meets the West's most lethal bounty hunter. Together they are going to conquer the wild frontier of the American badlands. Nothing will stand in their way as they track down a plantation of legendary evil.
1. Two Gunslingers Walk Into A Bar

The gun holsters felt light and awkward on his belt. Sparda hadn't been in the "gunslinger" business for very long. Guns never had held a special appeal with him - killing outlaws did, however. He had been doing that for long enough. The cold blue steel he use to carry was far more his style: a nice, well-crafted long sword, tucked away to the side of his hip. He missed his Force Edge. Its weight, its feel, its presence.

He remembered not too long ago when he had entered the American badlands, having arrived in Florida by Spanish ferry. It was a long journey and after a few days of enjoying the nightlife topped with a healthy (or unhealthy for human men) dose of senoritas, he ventured to the American territories of Texas and Arizona. He missed his days of war from his youth, and found the challenge of demon hordes severely lacking. After filling over a hundred contracts and bounties, he now found himself rich, bored, and on the verge of leaving these "new lands."

Turning his gaze to the tables and drunkards behind him, he leered at the participants in the bar. All of them were thoroughly drunk, and hadn't noticed how many drinks Sparda had had - 22 in all. Not one of them looked dangerous, threatening, or the least bit intimidating. It crossed his mind to actually pick a gunfight with one of them, but it would be the very definition of the word _unfair_.

Finishing off his 23rd shot, Sparda slammed his glass down on the bar and turned back around, getting the attention of one of the patrons. (True, the patron was only a quarter conscious, but the former general had gained his attention, nonetheless.) The drunken man could barely see the gunfighter clad in a long, purple trench coat. he did however notice the snow-white hair, heavy looking boots, and dark _presence_ of the gunfighter. He burped and followed that with a, "Hey, you."

Sparda ignored the man, thinking he was talking to someone else.

The man tilted upwards with a slant, mimicking a stand. "Hey! You! Why you wearing metal boots?"

Sparda took a slow drink of his 26th shot and said low, calm, and menacingly, "Would it shock you to learn I was once a knight? Couldn't bare to do without my boots."

"But where's your sword?" The man asked.

Sparda could tell by his tone he was merely curious and not wanting trouble at all. He thought about staying quiet but he was still a knight, and it would be rude not to answer. "I left it behind in favor of a gun. Wanted to learn how to use one," which was a true statement. Sparda had heard the wild stories of the wild west, figuring on learning the "way-of-the-gun" through self-training. Unfortunately he had come across little challenge with it.

"You, uh, belong to an… _order_ , or something?"

Sparda smiled. "I use to. Lets just say a few of their edicts didn't sit well with me," he said, looking at the empty 27th shot glass. Memories of serving Mundus as his top general circulated in his mind and heart. He had to keep from remembering how many _good_ humans had fallen by his sword during that time, their blood on his hands and conscience. This required 3 more shots - he drank them down quickly, shifting off his stool and stood up.

The drunken man sat back down and tipped a glass to him. "Well, sir knight, I hope that you find a better order here." He nodded with a whisper, "though I highly doubt it."

Sparda heard him but shrugged it off, knowing he was probably right, and very drunk.

Readjusting his holster he felt his revolver with a sigh escaping him, missing the long thick steel of his sword, replaced by a small light piece of metal. If something didn't change soon, he would be heading out, away from this "promise land." _Promise of what?_ He thought to himself; _For me, it's a cornucopia of cavalcading cutthroats, murderous marauders, and lawless louts just ripe for the swing of a good sword, or peppering of pellets. For the rest of these people, it's a promise of hardship, hazards, and Hell on Earth. My type of place is not a place for god-fearing folk._

Finishing his thought, Sparda tilted his black hat downward to cover his icy blue eyes. He folded his purple coat around his metal boots, walking towards the batwing, saloon doors.

That was when a stampede of horses passed by outside, their riders hollering with whiskey and bad intentions. The last horse dragged something behind it - something moving. Sparda could tell it was a body. The screams that issued forth a caterwaul of pain and torture. The body rolled and spun like a wild tumbleweed in a dust devil as the horses came to a halt. The riders dismounted, two of them dragging the body towards the bar. Sparda's keen, devilish eyes caught sight of blood and the smell was undeniable.

Exploding through the doors came the riders, dragging the body behind them like a prized kill. The first was a raunchy, dirty, scruffy looking specimen. A gaunt, jagged-tooth degenerate that scratched his chin and spat on the floor. (Sparda already promised himself to put a bullet through the man's head, if only for general purposes.) The other's were shorter than the first, but all of them showed the same disregard for manors and dental hygiene. They also seemed oblivious to the world around them, unlike the first. Even though he was the first one in, he was the last one to sit. After another scratch of his dirty face and a glance around the tavern, he finally took a seat at a table where the rest of his hooligans were.

Shifting his cold gaze from the riders to the body, Sparda focused in on the tied-up man. A black man, looking like he had been dragged from Tulsa to San Antonio. He made an effort to stand up with a whimper of overwhelming pain and agony. Even if one of the riders hadn't kicked him back down, Sparda was sure he would have collapsed of his own accord. He was caked with blood and dirt, lacerations covering his body as blood pooled around him, mixing with the dust. It turned the floorboards beneath him into a soupy mess of obsidian-black mud.

The obvious leader looked around at the bar patrons and asked them, collectively, "Take a look righ' chere at this nigga," his southern accent disappointedly predictable; "You'in don't mind if we hav' a hanin', do ya?"

Everyone in the bar looked down - all except one.

Another big, black spit wad hit the floor as the lead rider wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, gazing at Sparda. "Sorry, fellar, didn't quite hear ya. Got's ta speak up if'n ya wanna be heard."

Sparda could see all of them going for their weapons. Most had revolvers, two with rifles, the leader carried a double-barrel shotgun. He was ready.

A quick glace at Sparda made the leader comment, "Some fancy duds ya got goin' there."

All of them stood up from their table.

Sparda smiled from under the brim of his hat. His blue eyes hidden by it - just his smile showed. His demonic, evil, malicious smile. "I don't suppose you will give us his crime?"

One of the riders, armed with a long barrel revolver, asked, "Yeah, we will. Bein' a nigger! Born a nigger, die a nigger! Only good un, is a dead un!"

Standing still, like a stone sentinel, Sparda said in a low, callous tone, "Show me the law book that boasts being born upon this Earth is a blight because of a skin blemish?"

"What da fuck are you'n sayin'?" He smacked the closest rider on the arm and asked, casually, "Ya understandin' this crazy bastard?"

"Quiet!" The leader yelled. He looked at Sparda with a cocked gaze and another spit.

From outside came the chinking of spurs. Someone walked slowly, proudly, and brazenly towards the saloon. A shadow rounded the corner and hovered past the windows, entering through the batwing doors dressed in all burgundy. Black boots adorned his feet with clean, silver spurs. Gold buttons ran down his jacket and two guns sat comfortably at his hips with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun resting right in front. The gun belt was loaded with pistol ammo while two bandoliers ran across his chest, packed with red shotgun shells. Like the bleeding hurt man on the floor, he was black-skinned as well.

This new gunslinger's eyes were locked on the riders as he said in a calm, young voice, "Joshua Colton, been tracking you for a week now. Make a deal witch'ya, you release that colored man you've drug through twenty-five miles of rough bush, and I'll let all of you go."

"And if'n I don't?" The leader asked, already reaching for his shotgun.

"Well, shit, Josh," the black gunslinger said, his voice quickly changing from slightly friendly to dark and mean, "looks like I'm going to have to kill every last one of you bushwhacking, redneck sisterfuckers!"

The first shots fired were from the one's closest to the black gunslinger. Three of them blasted for him, but the dark-skinned warrior was faster than any of them, and more skilled than all of them combined. All they accomplished was destroying two windows behind the burgundy clad, armed black man.

He took out three attackers with six skilled shots from one Schofield, emptying the weapon. He then spun around and removed an Army Colt from his other holster, unleashing six more shots as he moved for cover, succeeding in laying down two more in a bloody show of talent.

He ducked down behind an empty wooden barrel as a bullet storm of lead rained down on him, sending wood chips and dust fuming into the air. The gunslinger was pinned down.

Reprieve came swiftly though for the black shootist in the form of one loud shot. It sounded like a small cannon had gone off, and the silence after was deafening. He eased out from the barrel and saw the entire gang looking at the white-haired man in a stunned silence. Joshua, the tall leader, dropped to the floor with a quarter of his head neatly drilled out, a splash of gray and red brain matter sprayed across the floor, much like his spit beforehand.

Sparda held up his large, smoking six-shooter and leered at the gang, giving them all a good look at his serious, frosty eyes next to his gun. An 1885 Colt Peacemaker with a long barrel and a silver shine, decorated with an ivory handle. "Now," he said, lowering the Peacemaker into its holster, smoke still bellowing from its barrel like fumes from a dragon's nostrils, "if anyone of you ostracized outlaws still wishes to play-out this overtly abysmal lack of aptitude in firearms - stay. But, if a fraction of you filthy, fraudulent malefactors want to continue your callous cadre of crime - go."

From behind the empty whiskey barrel, the black gunslinger said under his breath, reloading both guns, "Poetic son of a bitch, aren't ya?"

One man in the gang, holding a rifle and barely in his twenties, lowered it slowly and looked at the others. He then said with a whimper, "I quit!" He ran out as another in the group scolded him.

Sparda smiled. "Probably the only one of you that understood a word I just said."

Reloaded, cocking both hammers back on his Colt and Schofield, the black gunslinger commented, "That ain't no shit!"

The bar erupted with gunfire. The dark-skinned gunfighter attacked from the back while Sparda pulled his silver Peacemaker along with a dark ebony twin. It was almost exactly like the other, except for the black steel and golden handle. The group was turned into a bleeding, mutilated, bullet-riddled mess.

The black gunslinger spun both his guns back into their holsters and walked towards Sparda. Meanwhile, the former dark knight did the same and took a step towards the burgundy-clad man.

The first thing he had to say about Spardas was, "Boy, I've seen some white sons-a-bitches in my day, but you are a fucking ghost, sir."

Cocking a sideways glance at the ebony warrior, Sparda replied, "Why do you use such language? It doesn't become you at all."

Smiling, shrugging his eyebrows, the black man extended his hand. "Name's Django."

"Django," Sparda said, rolling the name off his tongue. "I like it." He shook Django's hand and courteously said, "Sparda."

"Sparta? Like the Greek nation?"

"Close. Spar-Da."

"Got it." Django looked around and tipped his hat, "Well, Sparda, I've got a bounty to collect."

"A bounty hunter? How very odd for a man of your… _tone_."

"You saying a negro can't be a bounty hunter?" Django asked, grabbing Joshua by his dead wrist and dragged him across the bar floor.

"Not at all. Just… _fortunate_."

Pulling Joshua through the batwing doors, hauling him onto his horse, Django looked back at Sparda and said, "It was no ease feat, I can tell you that, Mr. Sparda."

"Just Sparda, please," he corrected. Sparda went on to compliment Django. "I can tell. You seem quite skilled. Your execution of executions is excellent."

Pulling a knife from his boot, Django cut the bloodied man free and asked Sparda, "Are you always this poetic?"

Sparda grinned. "It comes naturally."

"Well," Django huffed, helping the man to his feet; "It's definitely a unique skill around here."

Looking back at the wounded man, Django told him, "There's a doctor down the street not more than fifteen paces from here." He slapped some dollars in his shaking, gnarled hands. "Get some help and then be on your way."

"Doctor?" Sparda asked.

"Where will I go, what will I do?" The man asked.

Django said, "Your free, do as you please."

"Excuse me, doctor?" Sparda asked again.

Django rolled his eyes. "Yeah, _doctor_ , you know, that person that fixes you up when you're bleeding out'ur ass?!"

" _Ooh,_ I don't think you want to send him to _that_ doctor."

"Why not?"

"You see, I'm a hunter too, of sorts. I really don't think he can help him. In fact, I'm pretty sure he'll be destroyed by the doctor in this decadent, diseased, little district."

"Get," Django told the man and sent him on his way. He then spun his knife in Sparda's face, pointing the tip at him. " _And you_ \- white men have tried to command me before, some have succeeded, but that was before I learned my way around a whip, a knife, a gun, and plenty of other weaponry a negro-boy like me would never known."

Sparda looked at the knife and couldn't hide his laugh.

Django turned a wicked glare towards Sparda as he spun his knife back into its sheath on his boot. "I know you ain't laughing at me, _Saltine_."

This made Sparda laugh harder, returning a thin, menacing leer. A leer that made Django rethink his position. The purple-coated gunslinger hissed, "I remember when they were called hardtacks by your ancestors."

"The hell you on about?"

Suddenly a visceral, primal, blood-curdling scream came from down the road. It pierced through the night like a demonic siren, a wail of terror only heard before the end of one's life at the jagged points of a monster's teeth, or the razor-sharp tips of a beast's claws.


	2. Heard Any Good Stories Lately?

Both weapon masters pulled their guns in readiness. The two approached the cry, each with the back to the other. Django and Sprada noticed the citizenry watching them as they approached. The ebony-skinned bounty hunter was more weary of the townsfolk than what Sparda was, but that was only because, unlike the pale gunslinger, he had no idea why they were watching them. Django figured any smart person would have ran for the hills. Not these people - they stayed; silent and ever watchful of the two. A cold, calculating way about them, as if they were about to attack, waiting for the right time.

Both men reached the end of town, and suddenly, from the doctor's office, came the colored man from before. He dropped to the ground from the steps, face first. Most of the blood was gone and what little color he did have was gone as well. Now he just looked like an ashy, dead hunk of meat.

The two gunslingers could tell he was dead.

From out of the doctor's office came the doctor himself. He sauntered down the steps, wearing a white coat drenched in blood. A pleased, fulfilled smile across his face, decorated in crimson. He licked his lips of blood and said, "My, my," belching as he spoke; "That little negro provided me quite the meal for having been dragged through the dirt. But hey, that's what gives them their flavor, yes sir!"

Django's eyes grew wide, thumbing back the hammers on his guns. "The fuck is going on here?!"

Sparda raised his two guns to his face and hissed out, "Vampires."

The dead black man rose from the ground. His fingernails long and pointed. His teeth all had taken on a canine appearance, sharp and razor-like. His eyes sanguine pools of hunger as he growled out for blood.

Sparda added, "And now its too late."

The beastly slave whipped his attention towards Sparda & Django. A foul, menacing howl came from him as he shambled towards them. His feet dragged in the dirt like they were braced by invisible chains. His movement erratic and chaotic, swinging his arms like he was grabbing at a bug.

From the townsfolk came a low chant. It built up until it was deafening: "Feed. Feed. _Feed! Feed! FEED!_ " Even the doctor had joined, cheering on the monster.

Django and Sparda both looked around at the townsfolk, all of them vampires as well.

Looking back at the once hapless slave, now a creature of the night, Django watched that shamble turn into a sprint. His arms out and his mouth wide, letting out this horrendous screech, sounding a lot like a dying bat. It was dinner time.

"Not tonight!" Django said and snapped his gun hand, pulling off a deadly accurate shot.

The newly born vampire's head snapped back and he landed on the ground with a trail of black blood spewing from his head.

The chanting stopped.

"I hope that bullet was silver, or, at least, blessed," Sparda said.

"Yeah, because I always stop by the church to soak my bullets in the font. Just part of a daily practice for a _bounty hunter_ like me!" Django quipped.

The vampire began to rise again, his wounded a stream of black liquid. He hissed at the two, showcasing his teeth with a sideways glare. His eyes wide and his head trembling. Upon seeing the black vampire tilt upwards, the chant began again, louder than ever, " _FEED! FEED!_ "

The thin, black vampire stood and ran for Django again.

Suddenly a loud crack exploded in the air and sent the vampire flying backwards. He nearly tumbled head-over-heels, landing in the dirt, face up, and he wasn't going to be getting back up this time.

Sparda raised the smoking barrel of his black and gold Colt, telling Django, "Lucky for you I come prepared."

The whole town was stunned silent. Even the doctor was shocked. He went to his previous patient and looked down at him. An angry, foul hiss came from him, forming into words. "Who… Who the hell are you?!"

Now with both guns trained on the doctor, Sparda told him, "Ask not who I am, but what is about to happen to you, and this entire town if you give me the wrong answer."

Baring his long fangs, growling at Sparda, the doctor barked out, "What are you talking about?!"

Sparda walked around Django and said, "There's a notorious ne'er-do-well that I'm looking for. He's an ex-doctor. A physician, to be exact. Has a plantation far from here. Now, only a few dark, dangerous, demented doctors know where he is hiding, and you're one."

"Even if there was someone like that," The vampire doctor hissed; "I would never tell you. You'll be dead soon, anyway. You can't take this whole town!"

A collective howl came from the townsfolk. Fangs, claws, and slit-crocodilian eyes surrounded the two gunslingers they faced them down, back-to-back. Django had his Scofield and Colt ready. Sparda had both his Colts hammered back and his eyes locked. He turned slightly and asked, "Just how good are you, Django?"

Three vampires rushed the black gunslinger, causing him to shoot them down. They fell like dominoes to his gunfire, not one bullet missing its mark as he reloaded in less than two seconds. He readied his guns back up and told Sparda, "Best in the racist west!"

Sparda blasted a vampire's skull apart with his silver, ivory-handled Colt and said, "I'm the only one around here who gets to make purple prose."

One vampire had a two-pronged pitchfork, and was running towards Django. He was screaming as he charged the black gunslinger and had a fire in his eyes. Django emptied an entire cylinder into him, putting him down. The former slave reloaded and said, "I wish I had a cross to shove up these monsters' asses!" blowing away another vampire.

Blasting away several more, and finishing the ones Django had gunned down, Sparda spun his two guns and mowed down four more.

The doctor, meanwhile, hopped on a horse and began to ride away, seeing the two professional death dealers doing what they did best to his brood.

Seeing him trying to escape, Django walked towards the doctor, not only gunning down three more vampires in a hail of lead, but also handicapped the horse with his shotgun. The animal neighed out loud into the night, and fell flat from the bloody wounds drilled deep into its legs and hindquarters. The doctor flew off the horse and crashed into the dirt, skidding on the ground, tearing up his face and clothes. Django popped the barrels open, ejecting the shells, and reloaded with a grimace. He then blasted the poor animal's brains all over the ground so the doctor couldn't use it again. Bending down, shoving his coach gun in the doctor's face, Django looked around.

Those that were left in the town were running away, sprinting from the chaos. Sparda got five more before all of them had left the doctor to the whims of the two gunslingers.

Django pushed his hat up with his thumb and told the evil doctor, "Not the first time I've taken down a white man who thought his minions could take me."

Sparda turned and saw the negro bounty hunter with the edge on the doctor. He slid his guns back into their holsters and stayed back, wanting to see how this would play out.

"Now, you blood-sucking, snake-oil-pedaling, son-of-a-bitch, you're gonna give Mr. Sparda here a goddamn name, or so help me God, I'm going to send you right back to the infernal ovary you slithered out of!"

Flashing a frightened look over to Sparda, the doctor saw the ancient-knight-now- turned-mercenary wave at him.

"Nikon. Christopher Nikon."

Sparda's eyes went wide with anger. He marched over to the doctor and shoved his ebony Colt deep into the doctor's face. " _YOU LIE_! Your words are full of vile venom, vilifying a purveyor of virtue and vitality!"

" _I swear!_ " The doctor exclaimed.

Both Sparda and Django cocked their hammers back at the same time, unintentionally.

Django warned, "Uncross your teeth before you speak again."

"I'm not!" The doctor pleaded. "That's what they call him. Christopher Nikon."

Sparda stood up and threatened, "Say that name again, say it again! I dare you, I double-dare you! Say that name one more time!"

By this point, the doctor was unsure of what to say next. What was he suppose to say next? He then asked, "What's that name mean to you?"

Sparda growled out in his regal yet dark voice, "I'm asking the questions."

"His plantation is about four days ride from here. Head west, ask for the 'Cobble Plantation.'"

Django lifted his shotgun and sunk it back into its leathery confines. He found his horse and mounted it. Pulling on the reins to head for Sparda he heard a loud gunshot and saw that Sparda had blown the vampire doctor away. The back of his head was leaking out a long river of blood as Django grumbled out, "Better off anyway."

Sparda holstered his six-shooter and mounted his own horse, near the bar. A large white beast with slightly indented eyes and strong muscle tone. It had a different way about it than any other horse and Django wanted to ask, but decided against it.

They rode out of town, slowly, and out into the wilderness, heading west.

Sparda made the observation, "So why are you tagging along?"

Django shrugged, "I ain't got a contract right now. Besides, any time I get to take down a plantation is a good time."

The white, purple clad gunslinger nodded and kept quiet for awhile. It wasn't until Django asked, "So where do you hail from, Sparda?"

Sparda smiled and made a gruff laugh. "Everywhere."

"Let's start with where you were before coming here."

"This state, or… this continent?"

Django gave him a wild look. "Wow, you - you do get around, don't you, white knight?"

"Indeed."

"Alright, I'll bite. Continent."

"Before here I was in Spain - werewolf. Before that I was in France, seems they were having a bit of _probleme_ with workhouses. Before that I was in England - London, to be precise. Scotland Yard was on the hunt for a vicious villain and they wanted my… _expertise_ on the matter."

"I didn't ask for a life story."

Sparda got a good laugh from that. "No, because if you had, I would have asked which one you wanted."

Django stopped his horse. "Alright, let's get one thing straight here, Saltine: I don't really know you, and you don't know me. Let's keep it that way." He bucked his horse to trot on.

A wicked, confident grin stretched across Sparda's face. "You were a former slave until you got free. My guess is that a wealthy man set you free. A wealthy man with a very dark past. Kept you safe and then taught you how to use that gun on your hip, and your other hip, and your front, and that knife in your boot. He's dead now. Either by your hand or on a job you were on with him, otherwise you'd still be with him. Am I getting warm?"

Django stopped his horse, aimed his gun right for Sparda, and said, "Yeah, and if you don't want to be stone cold, I suggest you shut that powdery-white trap of yours."

Holding up his hands, peacefully, Sparda bowed to Django and said, "It doesn't take much to guess your story. Not many colored folk riding around with a fine horse, fine clothes, and a finer attitude."

The black gunslinger lowered his weapon and holstered it. He stayed quiet and started his horse on a trot, yet again. "It doesn't take much to guess yours, either. You're running from something, Saltine. Something dangerous, I'm sure."

Sparda caught up with Django and replied, "The most dangerous thing of all: boredom."

The two rode long into the night until the sun started to lift into the sky from the East.

Django grumbled, "I'm getting hungry."

"Is there a town close by?"

Django shook his head. "Can't say for sure, not familiar with this part of the state."

It was then the two rode up on a strange sight. A man who seemed to be holding up a sign that read: _Pandaemonium. Believe in the power of the new Father._

Sliding off his horse, Sparda walked towards the sign and inspected the man more closely. "He's dead. He was left as a warning."

Django bucked his horse and rode up to where Sparda was. "I take it, it wasn't suicide."

Sparda just shook his head. "I know the name."

"What? Of the town?" Django asked, curiously.

Sparda nodded.

"What does it mean?"

"It's a place I've been before."

"They got any good food?"

"Not here, Django." Sparda said, correcting the gunslinger. "Deep, in the darkened divot of the damned, a truly hellish abomination of architecture and abysmal atrocities."

Django shifted on his saddle, and growled out, "As long as they have got some good grits and hash, they can get as 'abysmal' and 'atrocious' as they want." He bucked his horse to ride on.

Sparda was slow to get back on his horse. He tried to forgive the black gunslinger of knowing nothing of the name, neither through Milton, Dante, or Hell itself. He caught up with Django quickly and warned him, "This is going to be a bad place, you know this?"

"It's all bad out here, Saltine," Django grumbled.

"I smell brimstone, there is definitely a demon afoot."

"Eggs," Django said; "I'd be alright with some eggs. Is there chickens in Hell?"

Sparda gave Django a sly smirk. "Not as you know them."

This kept the ebony warrior quiet until they reached the town. The sun was beating down on the small village, showcasing buildings all drenched in bright red paint. Six of them on either side lay out before the two, and the closer they got, the slower their pace became. The crimson structures stared down at the two, each building a bizarre rose-red copy of establishments they had seen before. There was a stable, a general store, a bank, a bar, and many others.

Django stopped his horse a few paces from the first building and told Sparda, "Well, if this ain't all inviting like."

A long row of tables decorated with red-and-white checkered tablecloths were placed in the middle of town. Food adorned the tables, ranging from roast ham and turkey, to pies and cakes.

Sparda sniffed the air like a hungry wolf. "Brimstone most assuredly. A demon is in this town."

Looking at the pale-white gunslinger like his head was on fire, Django said, "You must be nuts! All I smell on the air is food. Damn good food to boot!"

"Be careful, Django. Something is not right here."

Pulling his Schofield, Django gave Sparda half-a-smirk and said, "Every damn building is coated in red paint, nobody's here, and a bunch of food is left out to spoil, waiting for someone to eat it." He cocked the hammer back on the long barrel revolver. "I'm surprised they don't have a big-ass sign somewhere that says: _Trap_."

Trotting his horse into town at a leisurely gait, Django kept his eyes peeled for any movement. He mostly kept an eye on the roofs. He figured if there were townsfolk, they would want the high ground, get the drop on anyone who was dumb enough to go right for the food. Fortunately for anybody waiting in the shadows, he was too damn hungry to care.

Bucking his horse, Sparda followed Django, keeping a distance. He, too, kept a lookout for movement. He didn't trust his eyes though - he trusted his gut. He would just _feel_ evil if it did decided to show up. That brimstone was getting more powerful to him as well, sliding up his nose like a snake and wriggled inside. It was a bad feeling and it was getting stronger the deeper he got into town.

Django was already at one of the tables and was eating. Sparda would have warned against it, but, by the time he went to say something, Django had already sat down and was gnawing on a chicken thigh. Sparda was more than impressed by the speed in which he did so too.

Dismounting his horse, Sparda joined the black gunslinger and asked, "How is it?"

He was rolling a corn cob through his chops when he muffled out, "It's good! Have some."

Sparda scanned the town as he said, "No thank you, I'm not hungry."

Finished with the cob, throwing it over his shoulder, Django picked up another and started in on it. "What is wrong with you? Nothing is going to happen, and if it does, don't you think you and I can resolve it?"

A shadow captured Sparda's attention, causing him to pull his silver Colt and cock the hammer back. "Not what I'm worried about." He got up from the table and patted Django on the shoulder, telling him sarcastically, "Eat up."

"Oh, I intended to!" Django replied.


	3. The Stranger

Sparda's attention was still locked on the faded shadow. He approached an alley, staring down the darkened corridor. His ivory-handled, silver Colt seemed to glimmer in the sunlight as he scanned the empty, darkened street. A cold, lonely breeze blew past him as he entered, his gun still at the ready, entering the alleyway with his finger on the trigger.

His footfalls were heavy and noisy. His spurs jingled with every step as his gun hand groaned inside its glove, yearning for a target. Those blue, winter-ice eyes of his danced left and right, ready and wanting movement. His whole body was prepared for combat - a very familiar feeling to him. He had felt it so many times before, and only now was he starting to feel comfortable without his sword.

Suddenly a quick streak of black passed by him. He aimed his gun quickly, lowering it towards the swift target.

It was gone.

Lifting his iron, Sparda walked out of the alleyway and behind the buildings. He heard a small whimper, and quicker-than-lightning, had his gun aimed square on some sniveling citizenry. They seemed comprised of a man and two little girls. They were scared of him even though the man - looking like he was in his forties - was holding a lever-action Winchester.

Smoothly, slowly, Sparda holstered his long-barrel Colt, and held out a calming hand. "I' m sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. What are you doing here?" (Even trying to sound as docile as he could, he was well aware that his voice was terrifying to men of simpler lives.)

The man shook out with a stutter, "This, this is our home and, and, and we won't be pushed out by, by, by fellars the-likes of you!"

"What are you talking …"

 _Click._

Shifting his eyes towards the sound, slowly, Sparda turned and saw a man approaching him - _no_ \- something that _looked_ like a man. A figure with a maroon poncho pushed over one shoulder sprinkled with black ash. The rest of his attire; his boots, his shirt, his jeans, all were covered in dust from the desert. Atop his head sat a coal black hat, hiding his eyes at the rim. His gun belt was loaded with bullets with one revolver at the hip. A rough, rugged hand already wrapped around the gun.

Sparda smelled the air and the brimstone was ripe. "It's you."

The stranger raised his head just a bit, still keeping his eyes hidden. He then spoke out of the corner of his mouth. His voice more grizzled than Sparda's and harsher than the hottest winds. "I haven't any quarrel with you."

The mere sound of his voice made Sparda himself quiver. He lowered his hand towards his own gun, but before he could flinch, the stranger had his iron out and aimed. "Not the healthiest of ideas."

Sparda stopped, his hand hovering just above his black and gold steel. His blue eyes locked on the stranger. No mortal could outdraw him. However, this was no mere mortal he was dealing with. "Tell me, who are these people to you?"

Unmoving, the stranger said, "None of your concern."

"I'm afraid I can't just let you gun them down."

"Well then," The stranger said, spitting a wad on the ground that hissed and bubbled like acid; "You've got quite the problem."

 _Click, click._

"On the contrary, mister," came Django's voice from behind the stranger, aiming both his Schofield and Colt; "You have the problem."

The stranger tilted his head towards the black gunslinger and hissed out, "Don't know what your meddling with, boy."

"Yeah, and I get tired of white men telling me that," Django said, moving around the stranger to Sparda's side.

"Why don't you ask farmer-John over there," the stranger said, referring to Sparda's earlier question.

Sparda and Django both turned around to see that the farmer, and the two girls, had disappeared. They looked at each other and then back at the stranger - he, too, had disappeared. Both of them now were armed as Sparda pulled both of his revolvers.

The two stayed close to each other, back-to-back, as they entered the town square once again. The tables were all knocked down now, and the food was a mess, as if something other than Django had torn into it - something hungrier and something bigger.

The two gunslingers then heard a voice, hollering down at them from atop the church at the end of town. "These three look to defile our way of life! The new father has commanded their extermination! Make it so!"

 _Three?_ Django thought.

Both Django and Sparda turned and saw the stranger riding a white horse at the entrance to town. He had the setting sun on his back with his gun out and his shadow splayed across town.

In front of the church were at least twenty townspeople, hunched over and looking like mean beasts. Sharp instruments were pierced through their skin: Fishhooks, broken knives, glass, and other metal pieces. They moved like ferocious animals, flexing and showing off their implements of destruction. Also, they looked like they derived some kind of pleasure from the pain.

Trotting up next to Django, the stranger dismounted his horse and cocked the hammer back on his pistol. He growled at Django, "I came to stop this. I don't even know how many people they've killed since I left. But it needs to stop - now!"

 _Since I left_ , Django repeated in his mind. "You've been here before?"

The stranger nodded. "A long time ago. When there was just that church."

The horde of corrupted townsfolk attacked. They came at the three like a pack of hungry wolves, wielding sharpened farm implements. Sharpened pitchfork with lengthened tings, sickles, hoes grinded to points, even the children seemed to be corrupted.

They didn't get very far though, mowed down by gunfire. A gout of smoke rose from the three gunslingers as they fired into the crowd.

Django had to reload and began firing again, until he was struck by a flying sickle. It came out of the smoke and stuck him in the leg, bringing him down to his knees. He gritted his teeth against the pain and kept up the assault, clicking off rounds with a pool of blood coming from his leg.

Sparda stopped and looked down at the warrior. He went to his side and asked, "You all right?"

"I have a fucking sickle through my leg, Saltine! What the fuck do you think?!"

Sparda looked at it and said, in his casual tone, "That does look bad."

The stranger walked away from the two, the last evil farmers falling to his bullets. Stepping past the dead bodies, walking towards the church and its pastor, the stranger growled out, "You, you son of a bitch! You're the one who did this to my town!"

Holding out his hand - like that was going to stop the stranger - the pastor said, "Stay back, the new father demands it! You have killed his flock! _He is upset with you_!"

Stopping a few feet from the church, the stranger gritted his teeth and cocked the hammer back on his gun, hissing, "Well then this is really going to piss him off."

The pastor's head snapped back, punched by a bullet. A thin stream of blood spewed from the wound as he fell backwards, falling on the steps of the church, dropping a small book from his grasp.

The stranger waited to see if he really was dead, and when he was satisfied, he holstered his gun, slowly, with smoke still pouring from the barrel. He walked inside the church and saw that the crucifix had been torn down and burned. Grimacing he took a few more steps toward the pulpit and said to the burned crucifix, "Am I done? Is it over?"


End file.
